


bound to inherit

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: Runaways (Comics), Runaways (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 14:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13366221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: (the sins of our parents)'He wants Gert to choose him, wants her to want him as badly as he wants her, wants her to make a choice based on her own free will, not be influenced by what could very well be the beliefs of a lunatic.'





	bound to inherit

**Author's Note:**

> Couple of things:  
> 1\. Last night I was like "I want to write a Gert/Chase fic." So - I did.  
> 2\. Gert and Chase are my FAVS, honestly. I read a few of the comics ages ago, and omg. The 'fat' girl getting the boy???? What?! The popular boy loving her beyond anything??? What?! Seriously... you don't know how much that meant to a younger me. And Ariela and Gregg's interpretation of them was beyond my wildest dreams, especially in the last few episodes. So yeah, hardcore Gert/Chase fangirl over here.  
> 3\. I listened to "May I Have This Dance" on repeat whilst writing this. I know every word now.  
> 4\. This fic is entirely based on the prompt 'au where you have a stripe of your soulmates hair colour on your wrist and if they dye their hair your stripe changes colours' because that's just perfect for a Gert/Chase fic. 
> 
> Anyways, I'll stop rambling. Enjoy!

When Chase is twelve, a dark stripe appears on his left wrist. He rubs roughly at it, thinking that it must just be residual dirt leftover from practice, but the stripe won’t budge. Even when he’s finished showering before dinner (because there is nothing more his father abhors than dirtiness, and after two hours of lacrosse that is the only applicable way to describe Chase), even when he’s scrubbed at the stripe with both a facecloth and his mother’s loofah, on his skin it still remains – a dark stripe, stark against his wrist. The mark doesn’t hurt to touch, so even though his father is prone to grabbing him by the forearm he doesn’t think it could be a bruise.

Before he can think too much on it his mother calls him down for dinner, and as always, the implication that time is of the essence is unspoken but still oppressively present. Chase quickly dons a long-sleeved shirt and smooths the fabric over his left forearm to ensure it covers the stripe, hurrying down the stairs. His mother quirks an eyebrow at his choice of wardrobe, but says nothing as she passes him the salad bowl and they walk together into the dining room. His father is already situated at the table, a glass of scotch firmly in his grasp.

For the first time in a while dinner is surprisingly pleasant. This is perhaps because Chase is too busy thinking about the mark on his arm to speak, contributing only short replies to his father’s questions. As soon as Victor’s plate is clear Chase excuses himself from the table, claiming homework in dire need of completion. He scraps the remnants of his own plate into the bin, stacking the dishwasher almost absent-mindedly. Bits of quiet conversation between his parents filter into the kitchen, his mother asking his father if he isn’t pleased by Chase’s latest sporting success and his father offering a curt reply that Chase swallows harshly after hearing. He glances quickly at the table before he heads upstairs, and not for the first time in his life, wonders _why_ his mother remains with his father. It isn’t as if Janet Stein isn’t brilliant in her own right.

His English homework goes uncompleted, for he is far too busy researching what exactly the mark on his arm could be to bother concerning himself with the works of Edgar Allan Poe. The first websites tell Chase that he has a skin condition, to which he merely shakes his head at, and it isn’t until the clock has ticked over to the next day and his eyes are hurting from staring at his laptop screen for so long that he stumbles upon an answer that is somehow more plausible than having skin cancer.

_Soulmates._

He shuts his laptop instantaneously and slides into bed, but he doesn’t sleep.

 

 ---

 

When he first started school, his father realised the necessity of containing Chase’s bruises to areas of his body which weren’t going to be on public display, lest concerns started to be raised about Victor Stein’s particular method of parenting. Still, his father is definitely not the definition of a rational, introspective man, and so when the unavoidable time came that he grabbed Chase’s neck, or Chase’s forearms, or Chase’s legs, it was up to his mother to ensure that the ensuing bruises weren’t visible. 

Chase has long since been gifted by his own tube of concealer, and so when he wakes in the early morning after barely a few hours of sleep, he uses that tube to ensure the stripe on his wrist is immaculately covered. It takes a little more product than usual, but eventually it is as if the mark never existed.

He isn’t at all certain about what he stumbled across last night, and until he is, he doesn’t want any questions being asked about what now decorates his wrist. So, as is the Stein way, he will cover it up and hope that it fades quickly.

 

\---

 

Only, it doesn’t. Every morning when he wakes, there the mark is, an ever present stain on his left wrist.

He’s thirteen, and the mark is still there. There’s a bruise on his right side, just above his hipbone, from where his father threw one of his many accolades at him after he discovered Chase in his lab, his hands itching to create a physical demonstration of the thoughts swirling in his mind.

He’s fourteen, and the mark is still there. He doesn’t bother covering it up, for it blends in seamlessly  with the purpling bruise bestowed upon him by his father, Victor having days before grabbed Chase’s left arm, tugging him harshly up the stairs before shoving him into his room and demanding that his next test see better results. The bruise is so large and deep that no amount of concealer would be able to mask it so with the ease of a practiced liar he tells everyone it’s a lacrosse injury, and ignores the concern in Gert’s eyes as he blows out the candles on his birthday cake.

He wishes that his father would die. 

 

\---

 

Gert’s parents finally give her permission to dye her hair when she turns fourteen. She’s been asking since she turned twelve, desperate to alter her appearance. With the help of Molly, her brown hair is transformed into a vibrant shade of purple – entirely unnatural and yet, somehow not unattractive. Her grin is so wide as she reveals her new hair colour to them all, Gert pushing her glasses up her nose.

He can tell Molly has dyed parts, for the brown still shows through in certain places, but it is hard not to love it when Gert obviously adores her new hair colour. Karolina gushes over it, bemoaning the fact that her parents would murder her before they let her touch her hair. But despite all of their friends respectively offering compliments on her hair, it is at him that Gert is looking at, him that she is seeking approval from, so Chase steps forward and twirls a strand around his finger, purple hair against his skin, before releasing it. It springs back, brushing lightly against Gert’s cheek.

“Suits you,” he remarks, smiling. Gert grins up at him, eyes bright behind her glasses.

He doesn’t notice until the morning, their parents’ meeting having run late and the Stein’s only returning home in the late hours of the night. In the sunlight there is no denying the truth, not when it is so plain against his skin. His mark isn’t dark anymore. It’s bright purple, the exact colour of Gert’s new hair. He licks a finger and wipes at it pointlessly, stupidly thinking that he must have somehow gotten some of her hair dye on his skin.

But Gert’s hair had been dry (and extremely soft, but he can’t dwell on that right now), without any remnants of hair dye.

His mark is purple, and he isn’t sure what that means. 

 

\---

 

Amy dies, the group breaks apart, and instead of spending time with them he starts associating with his lacrosse teammates instead.

And society has decided that girls like Gert just aren’t suitable for star lacrosse players, no matter how unjust such a sentiment might be. Apparently, it doesn’t matter how fast his heart might beat when he sees her, his mark carefully hidden under his sleeve. She’s forever passionate about some cause or another, and when his teammates make fun of her thrusting flyers at their classmates, glasses slipping down her nose, he prefers to stuff his face with food than join in.

Her purple hair taunts him. It haunts his dreams, a physical embodiment of who exactly Gert is – radical, passionate, opinionated. And when he wakes, he sees it right there, a stain on his wrist.

He thinks it smelt like oranges.

 

\---

 

They all leave behind numerous things when they run. If there had been time, Chase likes to think that they would have been smart enough to grab at least some of these items – money, clothes, food, Gert’s pills. When she’s having an attack, he thinks it helps telling her that she isn’t an idiot not for grabbing them, but really, out of everything they should’ve grabbed, they should have grabbed those damn pills. He often thinks about taking some of their rapidly dwindling stash of money and spending it on pills, just so Gert doesn’t have to suffer, her lip raw from where she has been biting it.

His tube of concealer is safely hidden away at home, rolled up in an old shirt stashed in his bottom draw. Aside from covering his mark, he really hasn’t had cause to use it for over a year, his physical size finally giving his father reason to pause before hitting him – because maybe this time, Chase would finally hit back. Even without it he manages to hide his mark from the rest of the group for quite a while, donning long-sleeved shirts and taking care to never roll those sleeves up.

He doesn’t tell Gert. He should tell Gert, seeing as he’s in love with her but he still isn’t sure what the mark actually means, his interest in researching it rapidly dwindling after he quickly realised he wasn’t getting anywhere. All he knows is that he has a mark on his wrist that is the exact shade of Gert’s hair, but as the weeks go by and her roots begin to show, the mark begins to change. It isn’t just purple now, but a mixture of purple and Gert’s original hair colour. After all, if they’ve got no money for anxiety medication then they definitely don’t have any money for hair dye.

The mark has been on his wrist for five years now, and no one has ever seen it.

That is, until Gert is unable to sleep one night at the Hostel, and seeks out his company for solace. She timidly knocks on his door, her form draped in a shirt which proudly proclaims ‘Down with the patriarchy!’, and when she slips into his room, he can tell she’s been trying not to cry. He shifts to make room for her in his bed and she stands awkwardly for a moment, obviously pondering her next moment, before curling up beside him, locks of purple hair tucked behind her ears. He smooths a thumb over her cheek, offering a smile.

“What’s wrong?’ he queries, after Gert has made herself comfortable. She inhales shakily, shaking her head.

“It’s stupid,” she murmurs. His lips thin in annoyance at her words – because nothing is ever stupid when it comes to Gert, and he _hates_ that she doesn’t innately know that – but says nothing, merely allows her to continue. She looks up at him, eyes wide and exhales. “It’s just – I’m.” She waves her hands around in a series of wild gestures. “Where do we go from here? We’re suspects in a murder case, Chase,” she tells him, as if he isn’t already acutely aware of the fact. He’d turn himself in, if he thought that would solve everything, but it wouldn’t. Their parents want them all back, and they won’t be satisfied with just Victor Stein’s son. He isn’t a tech genius like Alex, strong like Molly, able to perform actual magic like Nico, or in possession of whatever is it Karolina has. All he has is his fistigons and a determination to see them all safe.  

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” he confesses to Gert. “Honestly, I’ve got no idea.” He laughs, a sharp, harsh sound, because he really doesn’t have any freaking idea, and that terrifies him beyond measure. “We’re just going to survive. I know you need a long-term plan,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder, his fingers splaying over her back. He can feel her heartbeat, steady against his palm. “And I want to give that to you. I do. So tomorrow, we’ll all get together, and we’ll try and make one. Sound good?”

Gert nods, shifting slightly closer to him. His room is dimly lit by a light he’d rigged up himself, for even at seventeen years of age Chase Stein is still somewhat afraid of the dark. But what rational person wouldn’t be, if their childhood had been marked by instances of their father storming into their room in the middle of the night, dragging them from their bed and ruthlessly bestowing a series of hits on their barely awake form. The first time it happened, he thought it had all been a dream – but the bruises on his side were all too real, as was the silence at the dining table the next morning.

In the dim light that is meant to ensure he can see if and when someone enters his room with the intention to hit him, he can make out the relaxation that has settled within Gert with his words, and so he rubs her back until she is asleep in his arms. In repose, she is somehow even more beautiful, wisps of purple hair falling over her forehead that he smooths away.

He wakes to the feeling of Gert’s fingers on his skin, trailing up his arm. For a moment he merely lies there, eyes still shut, and enjoys the soft caress, until realisation washes over him and he registers where exactly on his body Gert’s fingers currently are. He opens his eyes slowly, stomach suddenly in knots, and with half-closed eyes watches Gert study the mark on his wrist, squinting due to her lack of glasses. She sits with her legs crossed, his forearm currently resting in her lap, and her small fingers trace back and forth over his mark, curiosity etched into her brow.   

“It’s quite something isn’t it?” he remarks, voice slightly croaky. There’s no controlled temperature system at the Hostel, and he’d ended up covering Gert with most of the covers, figuring she needed the warmth more than he did.

“What is it?” Gert asks, looking at him through her fringe. It’s in need of a trim and they have scissors and more than enough hands to complete such a task, but he thinks she wants to let it grow out. In the morning light, the similarities between the colour of her hair and the shade of his mark are indisputable – purple, with shades of brown. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life, and that includes Karolina’s light show.

He shrugs, shifting into an upright position. Moving means that Gert’s fingers slip from his skin, and he mourns the loss of contact. “I don’t have a clue,” he admits, heart in his throat. “It just appeared one day, and it’s been there ever since.” He looks at Gert, conscious of the fact that he is shirtless. But Gert isn’t ogling his chest, but rather, staring at the mark of his wrist, brow furrowed in thought. She offers him a soft nod, wrinkling her nose before she rolls up the sleeve of her shirt and places her own forearm in his lap.

There’s a brown stripe on her left wrist. If he held it up to his hair, he suspects that the two would be the exact same shade.

“When you were twelve, right?” Gert asks, jolting him out of his reverie. “It appeared on your twelfth birthday or thereabouts, right?” He looks up at her, and nods. “Me too,” she tells him. “I thought it was paint, at first,” she says, laughing. He places his fingers on her wrist, caressing her skin, caressing the stripe.  

“I thought it was dirt. From practice. Or a -” He breaks off, for even though he knows that out of all of them Gert is the one who is probably most aware of the reality of his childhood, he doesn’t want to ruin this moment by bringing up such a topic. He doesn't ever want to talk about Victor Stein again, if that's at all possible.

Gert takes his hand in hers. “What do you think they mean?” she murmurs, and he’s beyond grateful for the change in conversation. Chase pauses for a moment, thinking what he should tell her. He doesn’t want to tell her that some website on page sixty-seven of a late-night Google search when he was twelve told him that the marks meant they were soulmates, partially because he isn’t certain of the truth behind such a statement himself. And he doesn’t want to place any sort of pressure on Gert, doesn’t want to imply that the universe wants them to be together. He wants Gert to choose him, wants her to want him as badly as he wants her, wants her to make a choice based on her own free will, not be influenced by what could very well be the beliefs of a lunatic.

All he knows is that he bears a mark the exact same shade of her hair on his skin, and she bears a mark the exact same shade of his hair on her skin. All he knows is that he wants to protect her, and Molly, and Nico, and Karolina, and Alex. All he knows is that he loves her, beyond anything.

So he says, “I’m not sure,” and if Gert senses any dishonestly in his words, she doesn’t challenge him.   

Instead, she simply tightens her grip on his hand and leans forward. The kiss she places on his lips is feather light, entirely unlike the feverish kisses they shared at the dance. It lasts for only a brief moment, but it is more than enough. They walk down together to what is sure to be a hastily thrown together, jumble of food that they all will graciously call breakfast, Gert’s hand still tightly holding his.  

The next week Nico manages to snag some hair dye for Gert. It isn't the eco-friendly brand she would prefer to use, but still, it's something. The morning after he helps her dye her hair his mark is back to its intense purple state, but it is now perhaps a slightly different shade due to the change in hair dye. He runs his fingers over it, Gert still sleeping soundly beside him, her hair spread wildly across her pillow. He’s had various marks on his body over the years – gifts from Victor, bruises from lacrosse, injuries from fights – but he’s never cherished any like he does this mark. Maybe the universe does want them to be together. Maybe they’ve chosen to be together, despite what society says, despite the madness occurring around them. No matter why they’re together, the purple mark on his wrist ties him to Gert, irrefutably.

The girl in question stirs beside him, and he leans down to press a kiss under her jaw, Gert giggling uncontrollably as he peppers her neck with kisses.

Her hair still smells like oranges. 


End file.
